Paul Jones - Revelations

Looking up from fastening her jacket, she could see the snaking line of British submariners had almost reached the edge of the base, but they were angling toward the other building, following the lights from Jacob’s room. Emily took a few steps away from the side of the building so they would be sure to see her then began waving her arms back and forth above her head.

A few moments later she saw the lead stretcher-bearer stop and look at her. Whoever was beneath the parka turned his head and yelled something to the people behind him; she could see the white puffs of frozen breath spill out from the hood, then he changed direction and began trudging toward her.

The wind was beginning to make itself known again, picking up frozen crystals of snow and twirling them across the ground. Standing still wasn’t a good idea, she could already feel the knife-edge of cold cutting through the thermal armor of the coat, stabbing its way through the other layers of clothing, looking for the warm flesh below.

In the few minutes it took the sub crew to stumble their way to the building, the wind had whipped itself into a fury, gusts roaring between the boxlike buildings, rattling the triple-paned windows and whipping the antenna at the center of the camp back and forth until the guy-lines supporting it twanged and sang. Emily had to lean against the outer wall of the building for shelter or risk being blown over. It wasn’t that the wind was even that strong, it just seemed to switch direction in a heartbeat, as though it too was being pulled and pushed by some unseen force. The particles of snow and ice that flurried through the air only added to Emily’s disorientation.

The first member of the crew appeared out of the wind-whipped snow like a Bedouin nomad emerging from a sandstorm. Emily could not make out whether the form belonged to a man or a woman, their gender hidden beneath the layers of the white parka, their eyes hidden behind a pair of snow goggles, and from their nose down, some kind of facemask covered their lower face.

“Hello!” Emily yelled, but her voice was torn away from her by the wind. Instead, she beckoned the crewman toward the doorway, pulled the door ajar, and leaned into it to stop it being ripped from her hands.

“Inside,” she yelled. “Through the second door.”

The figure dipped his head and stepped through the door, carefully maneuvering the stretcher and its blanket-covered patient through the narrow doorway. The blankets and the injured sailor beneath it had been secured in place by what looked like straps or belts. Rhiannon’s face appeared around the edge of the far door; she opened it wide enough to allow the figures to stagger inside one after the other.

Over the next few blood-freezing minutes, the procession of half-frozen survivors made their way past Emily into the safety of the building, each clad from head-to-foot in the same all-white, military-style parka, facemask, and goggles. By the time the final one yelled into the hood of Emily’s parka that he was the last of them, she had counted all thirty-six survivors, including the injured carried on the stretchers.

Thankful to get out of the cold, she followed the figure through the door and closed it behind her, making sure the airtight door was fixed firmly in place, then followed the figure down into the anteroom off the corridor.

“That’s everyone?” Rhiannon asked as Emily stepped through.

Emily nodded and Rhia closed and secured the secondary door behind them. “I showed them where the beds are already,” the kid said.

Emily gave the girl’s shoulder a squeeze and shot her a smile as she dropped the hood from her parka, her lips still too cold to talk.

The last of the crew were disappearing from the anteroom into the main area she and Rhia had prepared. Emily followed them through into the makeshift hospital area. Thor was still sitting in one corner, his tail wagging slowly back and forth as he watched the procession of newcomers enter the room. His tail beat faster when he saw Emily.

Emily and Rhiannon waited patiently out of the way in the doorway, watching as the crew worked with military efficiency.

The newcomers wasted no time settling in. The injured had already been transferred from the stretchers to the waiting beds and the room was a commotion as the sailors dumped their backpacks and shed their cold-weather clothing. Medical supplies were pulled from packs as commands were shouted back and forth, order slowly being exerted on the chaos.

Bandages covered the injured, some had their chests wrapped; another had both hands covered in thick wadding that made him look like he wore boxing gloves as he was gently helped beneath the sheets of a bed; a woman, one side of her face wrapped up, watched Emily as she waited her turn to be transferred over. The gaunt-faced girl managed a weak smile, which Emily returned. Only six of the beds were occupied. She had counted eight stretchers, which meant two others must have been transferred to the side rooms she had prepped for the more seriously injured.

A tall man with a military crew cut directed the group from the center of the room. He looked to be in his early forties, a little taller than Emily, and with a week’s worth of dark-brown beard shot through with gray covering his lower face. He walked to the bedside of each of the injured, chatting with them briefly, smiling, joking too, judging by the smiles, and reassuringly touching their hands or arms before moving on.

“You must be Emily,” he said when he was finished with the last of his injured crew. He smiled widely and held out a hand, realized it was still gloved, and quickly pulled it from his fingers with his teeth. “I really can’t thank you enough for this.”

“It’s nothing,” said Emily as she shook the proffered hand. “This is Rhiannon.”

“Captain Edward Constantine,” the man replied, “and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” He held his hand out to Rhiannon, who flushed bright red as her tiny hand was swallowed up within his.

“At some point, I’d like to arrange a burial service for the members of my crew who died.”

“Of course,” Emily replied. “I’m sure we can arrange something with Jacob’s help.”

“Jacob? Ah! Of course, he’s one of the scientists here at the station?”

Emily stifled a bitter laugh: “He’s the scientist. He’s also wheelchair-bound, so you’ll have to excuse him not being here to greet you.”

Another man, broad shouldered and obviously fit beneath the layers of his military uniform, approached them.

“Sir,” he announced.

“Jimmy. I’d like you to meet Ms. Emily Baxter. Emily, this is Sergeant James ‘Jimmy’ MacAlister of the SBS, and my head of security.”

“You’re the lass we owe for all of this? Well then I’m doubly pleased to meet you,” MacAlister said through a smile in what Emily guessed was about as thick a Scottish accent as she could imagine. He was only a few inches taller than her, with what could only be described as a craggy face; thick eyebrows sat above a pair of soft brown eyes that hinted at a hidden level of mischievousness.

“What’s an ‘SBS’?” Rhiannon asked curiously.

“Special Boat Service,” the captain explained. “British special forces.”

“We’re like your Navy SEALs,” Jimmy chimed in. “Only better looking,” he added, his face split by a playful grin. “Yeah, much better looking,” he agreed with himself.

Emily smiled politely and coughed, and even Rhiannon giggled.

“What? You don’t agree, young lady?” Jimmy said, directing a ten-megawatt smile at the little girl that caused her to flush an even brighter shade of red and burst into a fit of nervous laughter.

“If you’re quite finished making an impression, Sergeant,” the captain said with a hint of his own smile, “I believe we have some injured who could use your help?”